A Different Outcome
by Second Star On The Left
Summary: In which Rhaegar wins the war and decides that he wants to take fostering diplomatic ties quite literally. So far: Rhaegar/Elia, Rhaegar/Lyanna, Sansa/Willas, Ned/Ashara, Brandon/Catelyn, Arianne/Edmure
1. Spoils of War

**Spoils of War.**

* * *

_Hello and welcome to my new AU! Updates will be random and sporadic and all over the shop, jsyk._**  
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_Basically, Rhaegar is victorious on the Trident and wins the war and everything is peachy. This is a prologue, I suppose, and kind of makes sense of everything that comes after? The other chapters could work as stand-alone AU stories, and the timelining was wrecking my head so I decided not to try and weave them all into one cohesive whole - enjoy :D_

* * *

Jaime Lannister's golden head rolls just like any other murderer's, and Rhaegar is sorry to see it go. He liked the youngest member of his father's Kingsguard, his Kingsguard now, but he is – was – an oath-breaker and a kingslayer, and for that he had to die.

Arthur assures him that they will find a seventh knight to wear a white cloak and protect Rhaegar and his family, as do Barristan and Lewyn, and he sighs and waves them away. He takes no pleasure in death, even when it is well deserved, and Jaime's execution has saddened him.

"So much wasted promise," he says to no one in particular, although he thinks that he does not imagine the sympathy in Arthur's eyes – Arthur, after all, was the one to knight Jaime, the one to nurture the boy's prodigious talents, to take him under his wing.

Tywin and Cersei Lannister watch from nearby, eyes glinting like emeralds, hard and cold, and Rhaegar understands that he needs to bridge the rift that Jaime's death has formed between Houses Lannister and Targaryen.

"Find Lord Connington," he says over his shoulder, heading up the stairs with Arthur and Lewyn in tow. Lewyn, he knows, despises him for his behaviour, for Lyanna, but he still adores Elia and will do everything in his power to spare her further pain. "Tell him I need to speak with him."

* * *

Jon Connington, faithful, steadfast Jon, finds Rhaegar in his solar with Elia and the children. Rhaenys is as much the image of her mother as Visenya is of hers, and he loves watching his elder daughter hold her half-sister while Aegon clambers up beside Rhaenys and leans over her arm, looking down into Visenya's face.

Viserys disapproves of Visenya, but he adores Rhaenys and tolerates his youngest niece for that reason.

"You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?" Jon says quietly, not wanting to disturb the children at their play. Rhaenys and Viserys are standing above a rapt audience of Aegon, sitting up shakily, and Visenya and Daenerys lying on their backs on the hearthrug, telling them stories of dragons and Valyria. Elia sits close by, watching her children and his daughter and siblings with affectionate eyes – although Rhaegar does not miss the pain that glows sharp in Elia's face whenever her gaze lands on Visenya.

"Yes, Jon, I did. Come, we will speak in my study."

His study is a small room off his solar where he comes when he needs to think with the guarantee of solitude – none would dare to disturb him there.

"What troubles you, sire?"

Rhaegar sits behind his desk and rest his chin on his clenched hands, considering how best to phrase his plan.

"I wish to foster certain young people here at King's Landing," he says at last. "As company for my children and my brother and sister."

"Have you any in mind, Your Grace?"

"The heirs to Sunspear, Highgarden, Riverrun, Casterly Rock and Pyke will do to start, I think. Oh, and the young Lord of Storm's End, him as well."

Jon's eyes bulge and Rhaegar smiles.

"I fear that part of the reason for the rebellion was that we heirs were so isolated from one another," he explains. If Jon disagrees, he says nothing and for that, Rhaegar is thankful. It is a flimsy lie, but it is necessary if he wishes to sleep at night. "I would like to see my children grow to know their bannermen – Aegon will be king after me, and it would go well for him to be friends with his lords. Send word, Jon – Arianne Martell, Willas Tyrell, Edmure Tully, Tyrion Lannister, Rodrick Greyjoy and Renly Baratheon. I will raise them here as my own children."

"Rodrick Greyjoy may resent being called a child," Jon notes mildly, finally sitting down opposite Rhaegar. "And his father will be reluctant to allow him to leave Pyke. Tywin Lannister, too, will probably protest handing you his heir."

"Send the ravens, Jon," Rhaegar says firmly. "I would have them here before the new year."


	2. The Thorns of a Broken Rose

**AN: **You cannot possibly understand the force with which I ship Sansa/Willas (although I still ship Sansa/Tyrion post-series in specific circumstances), both post-series and in every imaginable AU. You can't. I promise you.

* * *

_The Tyrell words may be Growing Strong, but nothing that grows can stand against fire and blood, and Viserys will triumph over Willas._

_He underestimates just how sharp a rose's thorns are, though._

* * *

"She's a pretty thing, isn't she?"

That's what Rhaenys whispers into Viserys' ear the day Sansa Stark of Winterfell arrives at court, eleven years old and so beautiful that it breaks his heart. She is Visenya's cousin, her older brother betrothed to Daenerys, and she is lovelier by far than Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, the one everyone talks about.

He dismisses Rhaenys' comment, embarrassed to be so enthralled by a child when he is twenty-three, nearly twenty-four years old and a prince of the Iron Throne, of House Targaryen, to boot. He is a _dragon, _she only a direwolf, and she should not be so damned fascinating.

Eventually, Viserys comes to the conclusion that it is all Rhaegar's fault – by ending the Targaryen tradition of wedding brother to sister, he robbed Viserys of his natural bride in Daenerys, left him adrift in a way that is cruel and unfair. If nothing else, a match should have been arranged for him before Daenerys was promised to Robb Stark, before Rhaenys was married to Tyrion Lannister, before Visenya was promised to Quentyn Martell. Only he and Aegon remain unfettered, and while Rhaegar can at least make the excuse that Aegon is to be king and his marriage is a matter of vital importance, he can make no such excuses for Viserys.

Viserys wonders, when Sansa Stark arrives at court, eleven years old and so beautiful that it breaks his heart, if perhaps this is why the gods made Rhaegar remiss in finding him a wife.

Sansa Stark of Winterfell can only be meant for him.

* * *

Sansa seems oblivious to this chance of fate, however, and contents herself with the company of the other girls near to her age, Daenerys and Visenya and Margaery Tyrell, who is pushed forward by her grasping father as an excellent prospect for Aegon.

The Starks seem happy to simply allow Sansa to spend time at court close to her elder brother and her uncle Edmure, and the absence of whispers about her marriage prospects only encourages Viserys.

She is as sweet as she is beautiful, and he thinks that she will make him a worthy wife – meek, subservient, passive, all the things he had hoped Daenerys would be before he realised Rhaegar was serious about not allowing them to marry. She blushes when anyone compliments her, never speaks ill of anyone and is generally very pleasing.

Viserys decides, after a day spent riding through the kingswood with Rhaenys and her friends and Daenerys and her friends, that he will ask Rhaegar about sending word to Winterfell to enquire after Sansa's hand.

Rhaegar laughs at him, not unkindly.

"Lady Sansa has not even flowered yet!" he exclaims, throwing up his hands and shaking his head. "No, brother, I will not speak with Lord Stark. Perhaps court Lady Sansa as is proper, test her interest in you – if she shows no interest by the time she has flowered, I will still refuse to speak to Lord Stark on your behalf."

* * *

"Viserys is watching you again," Daenerys whispers, leaning close enough that none save Visenya and Margaery will overhear. Sansa blushes, uncomfortable with the prince's scrutiny. "He's always watching you, Sansa – Rhaenys thinks that he's in love with you."

"Don't be silly," Sansa says firmly, ducking her head over her sewing and hiding behind the veil of her hair. She can feel the heat of Viserys' gaze on the back of her neck, warmer than the sunshine that lines the gardens in which they sit with liquid gold, and she hates it, hates that he demands more dances than are proper at feasts and balls, hates that he stares at her with such intensity when she walks past, hates everything about him.

"It's true," Visenya insists, her grey Stark eyes earnest in her long Stark face. Sansa's cousin Arya looks just like her, although perhaps not as pretty. Visenya has the full Targaryen mouth that balances the length of her other features better than Arya's thin lips - although Arya did have the lovely Dayne eyes. "Aegon says it too, and Renly and Tyrion. Aegon says he overheard Viserys asking Father if it was the right time to write to Winterfell."

Sansa's needle slipped and stabbed the ball of her thumb, drawing a drop of blood. Viserys Targaryen as her husband? Surely her father would never allow that, would he? Everyone knew that Viserys was half-mad, more, controlled only by King Rhaegar's gentle hand and Queen Elia's endless patience.

"Father said no," Visenya offers helpfully, tearing a scrap of linen from something in her basket and winding it around Sansa's thumb. "He said that it would be clear to a blind man that you were not interested, and that they had agreed something a long while ago involving you not being interested – Aegon couldn't hear properly, because Viserys and Father were in Father's study, but he says that Viserys was furious when he emerged."

"Did I hear my name, little sister?"

Visenya squeaks as Aegon catches her under the arms and sweeps her to her feet – he is tall, taller by a fair margin than his father at just seventeen and strong with it, and Visenya is much, much smaller, built more like Daenerys, even though there is only a year between her and her brother. Robb flops to the ground beside Sansa with a grin, and two Tyrells – the eldest two, Willas and Garlan – stand over Margaery and smile down at her. Sansa's cousin Jon and Jon's cousin Ned Dayne - even though Jon's a Stark, everyone just calls them the Daynes - linger a little further back, blocking Viserys' view of Sansa – she knows, because she can no longer feel his eyes on her.

"Aegon, put me _down!" _Visenya shrieks, swatting ineffectually at Aegon's back, balanced over his shoulder. He laughs and spins her around instead, his arm tight across the backs of her knees to hold her and her skirts in place. While Queen Elia never seems quite able to look at the youngest princess without wincing, Rhaenys and Aegon are viciously protective of their little sister, as protective as the Tyrell boys are of Margaery, as Robb and Jon are of Sansa.

Garlan Tyrell lowers himself to the ground and drapes a careless arm around Margaery's shoulders, leaning in to whisper something into her ear, and she laughs and slaps him playfully on the shoulder.

"Did Visenya tell you what Aegon overheard?" Robb asks in a whisper, his eyes shining with amusement and, Sansa thinks, a hint of worry. Aegon is only barely a year older than him and they are as thick as thieves, the two of them and the Daynes – Sansa would not be surprised if Robb had been with Aegon when he overheard the King and Viserys speaking – but Robb has no love for Viserys. "It seems you have an admirer, Sansa."

Robb has been at court for two years longer than Sansa, four years in total, but he still retains his Northern accent and such courtly words sound odd in his voice – that does not stop Sansa from blushing.

"If he is my only admirer, I would rather have none at all," she insists vehemently, casting aside her sewing and drawing her legs up to her chest. "I know that he is your brother, Dany, but I do not like him."

Daenerys shrugs and leans her head on Robb's shoulder. They are to be married on the day of Daenerys' sixteenth birthday, a month and a half before Robb turns seventeen, only six months away, and Sansa is sure that there has never been another couple as beautiful as her brother and the princess.

"Nobody likes Viserys," Willas Tyrell confides, finally easing himself to the ground with a grimace of pain. "He is a vile little toad who thinks he is better than any of us just by virtue of his blood, who often forgets that it is his brother who is king and his nephew who is heir to the throne, not him."

Since his horse fell on him during a tilt against Prince Oberyn on the day that Aegon came of age not long after Sansa came to court, Willas cannot bend his left knee and it causes him constant pain. He relies heavily on his walking stick, an elegantly carved length of polished ebony, all twined about with roses and delicate gold chasing on the handle. Almost too small to notice among the roses are a pair of horses chasing each other around the stick, just under the handle.

They are almost too small to notice, but Sansa notices many things about Willas Tyrell. She notices the precise shade of chestnut that is his hair, the way it curls at his temples when he runs a hand through it in frustration. She notices the gold in his eyes, eyes which darken when he is in pain. She notices the sound of his laugh, bright and free and so seldom heard that she cherishes every instance like a precious treasure, because Willas is serious and kind and gentle and solemn and does not laugh often, although he always smiles at Sansa.

"He is a _dangerous_ little toad," Daenerys corrects, shaking her head. "Be careful, Sansa – he is very determined when he sets his mind on something, and I fear that he has set his mind on you."

* * *

Viserys thinks that Rhaenys is the only true friend he has.

"How can she not be interested?" he fumes, marching the length of her rooms again and again in his anger. "I am a _Targaryen!"_

"Mayhaps Sansa has no interest in being a princess," Rhaenys says with a lazy shrug of one shoulder, looking up at him over the top of her book. "I do not, after all, nor does Dany. Mayhaps women in the North expect different things from a man paying them court, mayhaps Sansa does not like men – there are many different ways in which she cannot be interested, Viserys. There is nothing you can do to change her mind save perhaps be patient."

"I have waited two years!" he rages. "Two long years, Rhaenys – it is well for you, married to your Imp already-"

"Oh, do stop," she sighs, setting aside her book and rising to take his face in her hands. "Does it truly trouble you so much that you are unmarried? If it does, why set your heart on Sansa Stark? Even if her father _were _to agree to a match between you, you know that you would have to wait longer again before you could be married." She looked him carefully, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinised his face. "You've been watching her in the gardens again, haven't you?"

"What if I have?"

"Oh, _Viserys! _You are a fool sometimes – that is not how you court a woman, from the North or not, particularly one as sweet as Sansa Stark. Do you have any idea what interests her? What her passions are? You fancy yourself in love with her and yet you know next to nothing about her!"

"It was easier for you-"

"Yes, dearest uncle, it _was _easier for Tyrion and I – we grew up together from we were six and seven years old, and I know him as well as it is possible for any one person to know another, but that does not excuse your behaviour towards Sansa. Come, Viserys – tell me Sansa Stark's favourite colour."

"Blue."

"No, it is the yellow of lemon cakes."

"She never wears yellow-"

"Because she looks ghastly in it, but she adores lemon cakes. Did you even know that?"

She is the only true friend he has, but even Rhaenys does not understand how deeply sure he is that Sansa Stark is supposed to be his wife.

* * *

Visenya decides that for her name day, she wants to go riding with her brother and sister, her aunt and uncle, and all of their friends. She is three years Sansa's senior but their name days fall almost together, and so it is a dual celebration – the others promise to bring all of their gifts for both girls out with them, and they are to have a wonderful picnic in the Kingswood.

In the end, they are a great party – all five Targaryens, all four Tyrells, Tyrion Lannister and Renly Baratheon, Sansa and Robb, both Daynes, and three knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, Prince Lewyn Martell and Ser Arthur Dayne.

Sansa pays little mind to her own name day, knowing that Visenya's is more important – she is turning seventeen after all, Sansa only fourteen, and Visenya is to marry as soon as Quentyn Martell arrives from Sunspear – but she is amazed to receive a note the morning of Visenya's name day asking her to meet Willas Tyrell in the stables. She blushes and urges Visenya and Daenerys to hurry up as they braid her hair into the circlet all the girls wear to go riding, and then she half-runs down from her rooms, praying that she is not late for her appointment – although she does pause to swear them to secrecy, just to be sure that Margaery does not find out.

Willas, Sansa thinks, is at his loveliest near his beloved horses – his hands are so strong and elegant and sure that it is easy to overlook his crippled leg, and the concentration on his face is captivating.

"My lord?" she calls faintly, not truly wanting to disturb him but not wanting him to catch her staring, either. "You sent for me?"

He turns to her with a smile, warm and private and just for her, and extends a hand towards her.

"I see my sister had a hand in making your gown," he teases, brushing his fingers over the row of silver-blue roses embroidered into her cuffs. "You look very lovely today, my lady."

She blushes and ducks her head, wishing her hair was loose so she could hide behind it, but then he is cupping her chin and smiling again when he tips her face up.

"Come, I have a gift for you," he tells her with a conspiratorial wink, offering her his arm and guiding her along the stalls. "I know that you are no great horsewoman, Lady Sansa, but I hope that my gift will perhaps ease your worries for today, at least."

He gently pushes her into a stall halfway down the row, and it is all Sansa can do not to squeal – the horse within is tall and slender, a light chestnut whose coat shines almost the same colour as her hair.

"Her name is Whisper," he says, gesturing for Sansa to approach the filly. "She was born when last I brought Margaery to visit at home, her and a handful of others. They are part of the reason I was so long in returning to the city."

"She is beautiful," Sansa whispers, reaching out a trembling hand and allowing the horse to nose at her fingers, her wrist, before stroking its shining fetlock. "I would be afraid to ride her, Lord Willas – I have been known to ruin horses."

He smiles and comes closer, closer than is truly proper, close enough that Sansa can feel the warmth of him against her back and her heart thumps so loudly in her chest that she is sure he must hear it. He rests his hand over hers on Whisper's nose and leans down so his mouth is at her ear.

"I trained her with you in mind, my lady – she is a gift, Sansa, and not just for today."

Sansa whirls, the horse forgotten in a muddle of the feel of Willas' lips brushing against her skin and the mad knowledge that he is _giving her one of his horses. _Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows that Willas Tyrell's horses are the finest there are to be found in all the realm, and that he prizes them above all things save his brothers and sister. For him to give one to Sansa…

"I cannot possibly accept," she stammers, clasping her hands over her heart and praying that she is not as flushed as she feels. Sansa thinks that she flushes altogether too much in Willas Tyrell's presence. "Lord Willas, it- she is too much for a name day gift, I simply cannot-"

"If you will not accept her as a name day gift," he murmurs, lifting his free hand and brushing his fingers across the line of her cheekbone, curling his strong, slender hand around her jaw as if she's made of glass, as if she might shatter (as if he might kiss her), "then please, Sansa, accept her as a token of my most fervent admiration, and as the beginning of my attempt at courting you."

There is a blush in his cheeks to rival her own, and it seems as if there is not enough air in the close little stall. Willas' hand is hot against her skin, his long fingers splayed across her neck and cheek. Whisper is forgotten, everything is forgotten in the face of the glee that is knowing that Willas Tyrell of Highgarden, handsome, kind, utterly wonderful Willas Tyrell, wishes to court Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Wants to court _her._

He drops his hand and makes an embarrassed little noise in the back of his throat, looking away from her for a moment before smiling once more.

"My brothers helped me choose tack for her – for you both, really," he amended, waving towards the far wall. "Loras was of the opinion that I should use his tourney tack as a model for the saddlers, but Garlan and I both thought that festooning you in roses might be slightly presumptuous of me."

The saddle catches and holds Sansa's attention as it is the single most beautiful piece of leatherwork she has ever seen – even Ser Loras' tourney saddle cannot compare. It is as soft as butter when she touches it, and the straps are engraved with the prettiest of patterns.

"Oh, my lord-"

"Please, Sansa," he says, his eyes gleaming golden and warm. "Call me Willas."

* * *

The young ladies of court, ranging in age from Rhaenys at twenty-three to Sansa at fourteen, are all magnificent in their finest riding gowns. There are no silks and samites today, only wool and weave peeping out from beneath heavy cloaks– there is a bite of autumn in the air, and Rhaegar mentioned that he is expecting a white raven from the Citadel any day.

Sansa, of course, is the focus of Viserys' attentions. She is striking in navy blue wool, darker than her luminous eyes, adding a mesmerising cast to her pale skin. Her hair is gathered up in the same coils and twists as the other women's, but Viserys thinks that her colouring marks her out as special, different, _more._

Her new horse, one of Willas Tyrell's fillies, is the talk of their party – Visenya teases the heir to Highgarden viciously, demanding to know why it is that she, for her coming of age, received no such fine gift. Willas smiles shyly across at Sansa, and both flush before looking away sharply and turning to other conversations.

Viserys rides in the middle of the party with Rhaenys, Tyrion, Renly, Willas and Garlan – all of them save Garlan grew up together at court, and Viserys usually finds them more tolerable than most of the other courtiers. Today, though, he cannot bear to look upon Willas Tyrell, the image of Sansa's sweet smile being directed at his companion burned into his mind's eye. It does not help that Tyrion and Renly in particular are merciless in their mockery, rising a deep red blush high in Willas' cheeks with their increasingly pointed questions about his intentions towards Sansa.

"I am going to court her," he says at last, glaring playfully at Rhaenys as she giggles. "Do shut up about it – Loras and Margaery are bad enough without you all making it worse."

"Oh, we are sorry," Rhaenys laughs, shaking her head. "But you must admit that you would laugh if it were any of us – or imagine if it were _Edmure_, Willas! You would _never _let him live it down!"

"There is no shame in falling for Sansa Stark," Renly points out, grinning. Viserys still thinks that it was a mistake on Rhaegar's part not to kill the final Baratheon, but he has been told in no uncertain terms that his opinion on the matter is unwelcome – Renly is hugely popular about court, charming and handsome and an excellent tourney knight, and he is one of Rhaenys' closest friends. Rhaegar would rather saw off his own foot than kill Renly now. "She is quite the peach."

"If I were not already firmly in the claws of a dragon, I might have dallied with a direwolf," Tyrion muses, winking at Rhaenys with so much intent in his odd eyes that Viserys feels intrusive simply by being present. The Lannisters are another family that Viserys would have eradicated – although Rhaegar argued that Viserys' opinion was swayed by his dislike of Jaime, by Cersei's dismissal, by his distrust of Tyrion, Viserys was always more concerned by the cold hatred in Tywin Lannister's green-ice eyes, a hatred he knows and understands himself. "But I fear my lady wife might have objected had I pressed my suit with little Lady Stark."

Willas rolls his eyes and flicks his reins and urges his horse up alongside his sister's – since his accident, he cannot ride properly. He and Tyrion rely on the same saddler to make their custom saddles, which make up for their physical shortcomings. Whereas Tyrion's saddle is moulded and higher than normal, built both to support him and to compensate for his diminutive stature, Willas' involves a brace for his bad leg and a series of complex reins and straps that allow him to control his horse without his leg. It is an ingenious design, Viserys admits, probably one of Tyrion's; his goodnephew is always designing little things to make life progress quicker, easier.

"Well, I think we can be sure that our cripple is quite firmly in love with his little Northwoman," Tyrion drawls, and although his words are demeaning there is a warmth in his face which belies them, the same warmth that fills the other's eyes when they call Tyrion the Imp, an epitaph which is an insult coming from most others.

Willas' apparent interest in Sansa has taken them all by surprise. Rhaenys had confided to Viserys only days before that she was certain that Willas had some lowborn sweetheart squirreled away at Highgarden and that was why he remains unmarried, even though he is approaching twenty-five.

"I agree," Rhaenys says to her husband, looking at Willas' departing back with a smile. "And what a pretty little Northwoman she is."

* * *

"Willas Tyrell as a goodbrother," Aegon says, grinning over at Robb. "A vast improvement over my uncle, I think."

"I will have your uncle as a goodbrother anyway," Robb points out, glancing reflexively at Daenerys' silver head in the distance. "But yes, I think Willas might be better suited to Sansa than Viserys."

"Anyone would be better suited to Sansa than Viserys," Jon laughs, shaking his head. "She's afraid of him – hardly the kind of foundation on which to build a strong marriage."

"Viserys considers her fear a good thing," Aegon says grimly. "He feels that a wife should be – I believe "subservient" was the word he used. He thinks Sansa would be meek, I suppose."

"Clearly he has never seen her lose her temper," Robb says, shaking his head as memories of Sansa's always spectacular temper tantrums ran through his mind.

"He is angrier with Father than I have ever seen – he said something about being cheated out of two brides. He still thinks that Father was wrong to forbid him and Daenerys marrying," Aegon goes on, his eyes dark. "He treated her as his betrothed until she was nine or ten, I remember it."

Robb wrinkles his nose at the thought of Dany, _his _Dany, marrying Viserys, and Ned sees.

"Calm down, Stark," he japes. "Rhaegar wouldn't dare marry Dany to anyone else, not after seeing you fight in that last tourney. Just you and I wielding a greatsword now-"

"And just the two of you it will remain," Ned and Jon's uncle, Ser Arthur, comments with a smile. "It's a rare man will attempt to lift a greatsword."

"Robb and Ned don't have much choice," Aegon mocks. "Robb is to inherit Ice and Ned Dawn, if he can ever stop forgetting that he's not holding a longsword and start to compensate for the weight."

"You sound hopeful of my imminent demise, your highness," Ser Arthur says, his tone hurt but his deep violet-blue eyes shining with amusement. "Surely you would not wish to lose your deadliest guard?"

Robb rolls his eyes as Aegon and Ser Arthur descend into their usual good-natured ribbing and rides a little ahead with the younger Daynes.

"I would keep an eye on Viserys if I were you," Jon says quietly. "I'll help - Mother and Father agree that he's not to be trusted."

Jon's father is Robb and Sansa's uncle Ned, their father's younger brother, and his mother is Queen Elia's closest companion. Robb trusts their opinions and is oddly relieved that he is not being silly by worrying about the attentions Viserys pays to Sansa.

"I will too," Ned says, frowning. "She's terrified of the mad bastard – I imagine any help in keeping him away from her would be welcome."#

* * *

Sansa has never much liked riding, but Whisper is _wonderful, _even she can see that.

The horse never shies when Sansa does, never jolts when she tugs too sharply on the reins – she is a credit to Willas, and Sansa is sure that she has never loved any animal as much as Whisper except Lady, who runs along cheerfully at her side.

She is so thrilled with her new horse – she cannot wait to write to Winterfell, to tell Mother and Arya about Whisper – that she gallops on ahead of the others, laughing as the wind tugs her hair from its tightly-pinned braids, as the chill stings her cheeks pink and only the Tyrells can keep up with her on their horses who are as fine as Whisper but not as beautiful.

"You like her, I see!" Willas shouts across, delight plain on his lovely face, and Sansa wonders – not for the first time – what it would be like to kiss his smiling mouth.

"She's glorious!" she shouts in reply, aware that she's probably grinning like a lunatic but unable to care when she feels so strong and fierce, as much from the knowledge that Willas intends courting her as from riding Whisper.

She knows that the others can't be far behind but wants Willas all to herself, giddy as she is, and so she kicks against Whisper's flanks and laughs as the filly seems to fly across the ground, leaping across a fallen tree-

There is a catch and a jerk and a snap as Whisper's hoof snags on a twisty root and Sansa is thrown forward and the strap around Whisper's belly holding the elaborately tooled saddle in place breaks.

There is a fall and a crack and a scream.

* * *

Robb's stomach falls with Sansa, and he kicks Shadow harder than he ever has before in his desperation to get to her.

Willas is sitting above her on Gardener, struggling with the straps holding his bad leg in place when Robb reaches them, his face pale and desperate.

"Here," he says shortly, pulling off his cloak and tossing it to Robb. "Wrap that around her arm, don't let her look at it."

Sansa's left arm is a thing of absolute horror, her hand twisted and bone poking out of her wrist. Robb feels sick looking at it, so he can only imagine how Sansa must feel. He carefully, gently wraps it in Willas' cloak, but even the faintest of pressure causes her more pain and she shrieks and jerks away from him, cradling her arm against her chest.

"Give her here to me," Willas orders, gesturing for Robb to be quick about it. "The sooner we get her to a maester, the better chance she has of keeping full function in her hand-"

"Why you?" Robb asks, coaxing Sansa into his arms and standing up with her. "I'm her brother-"

"And I'm the best horseman in the Seven Kingdoms, even with my leg," Willas says impatiently, beckoning again. "Please, Robb – it's my fault she fell, let me take her back-"

"How is it your fault?" Rhaenys demands, her hand smacking sharply across the back of Willas' head. "None of your self-sacrificing nonsense, Tyrell – she's hurt because of the cursed saddle, just like you were. Hang that damned saddler and be done with it. Robb, Willas is right – he's a better rider than any of us, and Gardener's the best horse I've ever seen. He'll have Sansa back in the city in an hour, much quicker than any of us could – Uncle Lewyn, if you'd accompany them?"

Robb looks down at the quivering, sobbing wreck that is Sansa and then up at the terrified, determined wreck that is Willas.

He passes his sister into Willas' arms and watches as they ride north with more speed than he would have thought possible even for Gardener with two people on his back, Lewyn Martell trailing just behind them.

* * *

Viserys watches furiously as Willas rides off with Sansa cradled to his chest and trembles with rage.

How could Rhaenys say that it is not Willas fault? He gave Sansa the horse, even though she was not capable of riding such a fine beast. He gave her the saddle, even though the same saddler had made the saddle which had resulted in him being crippled. Of _course _it is his fault, but instead of being punished he is being allowed to act the hero and carry her back to King's Landing! How was he supposed to get her into the keep when he arrived – sling her over his shoulder and hobble up the stairs?

"Her arm is ruined," Tyrion says flatly, shaking his head. "You remember how Willas' leg looked after that tilt?"

The tourney for Aegon's coming-of-age is never referred to as anything but "that tilt," in reference to Willas' accident. Viserys watches as Rhaenys' and Renly's faces twist at the memory – Rhaenys and Arianne had cut Willas out of his saddle, and Renly and Edmure had carried Willas out of the lists while he screamed in insensible pain, his leg a mess of blood and bone and agony.

Everyone who was there remembers how Willas' leg looked after that tilt.

"It didn't look as bad as that," Renly disagrees faintly. "Her arm, I mean. Gods, she's so _young."_

Sansa is only twelve years younger than Renly, which doesn't seem much but Viserys suppose it is, really, when Renly has been Lord of Storm's End since he was nine years old and had watched as his last remaining relative was beheaded, while Sansa is the eldest daughter of the hale and hearty Eddard Stark, has lived a life of comfort and indulgence without the spectre of war and the shades of the dead hanging heavy above her head.

"We must hope for the best," Rhaenys says firmly, turning her horse – another of Willas' mounts, a bay as dark in the mane and tail as Rhaenys' hair, the one she calls Viper in her uncle Oberyn's honour – for home. "Come, we will return." She spares a smile for Visenya, who is pale and wide-eyed. "I am sorry, little sister – when Sansa is recovered, we will have the most magnificent party to make up for today, I promise."

* * *

Willas is sitting outside the maester's room and clearly trying not to be sick as Sansa screams when they reach King's Landing.

"He said- he said that she may never be able to use her hand again," he says, tears shining in his eyes. "What have I _done, _Rhaenys?"

Rhaenys settles herself on the bench beside him and shoos the others away – Robb Stark has to write to his father, after all, and the others are only in the way.

She may have married Tyrion, she may get drunk and cavort through the city with Renly, she may enjoy exchanging meaningless, searing, scathing insults with Edmure, she may confide her womanly worries in Arianne and she may console Viserys, but Rhaenys Targaryen-Lannister considers Willas Tyrell her best friend, and she'll be damned if she lets him blame himself for Sansa Stark's accident.

"You've done nothing," she says. Rhaenys is nothing if not straightforward, something Uncle Lewyn and Mother occasionally reprimand her for because they think she's too much like Uncle Oberyn, but it's often the best course of action while dealing with any of her boys. "Sansa had an accident, that is all – there was nothing you could have done."

"I might have caught her-"

"And taken yourself out of your own saddle and crippled your other leg? I think not, Willas. Do stop being stupid – you're almost as clever as Tyrion when you're not being stupid."

He huffs a watery laugh and shakes his head, and Rhaenys wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"I think I love her, Rhaenys," he admits in a voice so low she almost can't hear it. "And I think I might just have crippled her. A fine suitor I am."

* * *

Sansa wakes up slowly and dares to believe, in the absence of pain, that her fall was just a terrible nightmare.

She doesn't truly believe it, of course – she could never have imagined the pain and the fear any more than she could have dreamed up the smell of Willas' neck or the sound of his voice as he crooned sweet comforts into her ear all the way back to the city.

She doesn't want to dwell on the pain, so she settles into hazy memories of the feel of Willas' chest behind her, the shift of his thighs against her back as he stood high in his special saddle and rode Gardener so hard back to the city that the horse had been frothing at the mouth when they arrived. She thinks of the way he'd clung to her good hand until the maester had sent him away, of how he'd promised her that he'd be there when she awoke-

She opens her eyes, and is embarrassed to find her room very full.

What worries Sansa more than the absence of pain – she's thankful for that – is that she is sure that she should be _more _embarrassed to find her room so full. Robb, Jon, Ned, Aegon and Willas (his long, clever, warm fingers are laced through hers, her good ones) sit at one side of her bed in comfortable chairs that she knows weren't there before, and Margaery, Rhaenys, Visenya and Daenerys are on the other side in similar chairs. All nine of them are somewhere between sleeping and waking, and Willas in particular looks as though he hasn't moved in days.

Sansa is thirsty, so she clears her throat and says so. Nine pairs of eyes snap open and nine voices erupt into speech, and she is made aware of the fact that she has been sleeping for almost a week.

Her left arm is wrapped in strange, hard bandages from the second knuckles of her fingers all the way up to her elbow, but the pain is kept far away by a steady dose of poppy's milk and she finds herself oddly fascinated by the obstinate refusal of everyone, even the maester, to tell her how bad the damage truly is.

* * *

She is confined to her bed – more, she senses, because of the poppy's milk than because of her arm – but is kept company by a constant stream of visitors.

Robb and Jon take turns in sitting by her bed, insisting that at least one of her brothers should be with her always. Daenerys visits with Robb, smiling conspiratorially and telling her that soon they will be sisters, after all, and she has a duty to be there. Visenya fights tooth and nail when the King comes to urge her to bathe, saying that it is her duty as Sansa's cousin to stay by her side.

The Tyrells, all four, visit her often – Garlan and Loras bring her flowers and gossip, Margaery stitches her exquisite lengths of cloth to wind around her bandages and Willas reads to her, tells her stories and fairy tales – and truly, she is never lonely.

It is not until Mother and Bran arrive from Winterfell with Uncle Edmure, who met them at Lord Harroway's Town, that she finally discovers the truth of her injuries and finds that everyone has been completely over-reacting.

* * *

Rhaenys finds her boys in the great hall late in the night after Edmure's arrival. The four of them – Edmure, Tyrion, Renly and Willas – are gathered around the end of one table, several jugs of ale empty between them and several more at hand.

Willas' head is resting on his folded arms, his despair palpable, and Edmure, Renly and Tyrion are doing all they can to rouse him.

"It's hopeless," Tyrion murmurs when she slides onto the bench beside him. "We've done everything we can think of – he refuses to accept that Sansa's injury is not his fault."

"Aegon asked after her from Robb – he says that she'll recover full use of her hand?"

Tyrion nods and shrugs, and then he stands on the bench so he can lean across the table and prod Willas' head.

"Sit up, cripple, our dragon is here. Sit up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"I am not feeling sorry for myself," Willas groans, waving a hand at Tyrion without lifting his head. "I am feeling sorry for Sansa, and am- oh, I _am _feeling sorry for myself, because her parents will never accept my suit because I almost _crippled _her."

Edmure scowls and tosses something – a date, Rhaenys thinks, or a piece of candied blood orange – at Willas.

"My niece will be perfectly fine," he says angrily. "Stop this foolishness."

"Even if Lord and Lady Stark are still amenable, Sansa herself will never want to marry me now," Willas snaps, turning his head just enough to look at them all with one eye, the golden-brown ringed with red. Rhaenys can't be sure if it's from drink or crying, but she suspects some combination of the two. "Because I was fool enough to give her a horse like Whisper – I should have had Merry sent up, or Curlew. What was I _thinking?"_

He turns his head down again and thumps the table, startling them all. It is unlike him to be violent in any way – Rhaenys has long suspected Sansa's admiration of Willas, and she knows that it is his gentle nature that attracted the girl. For him to behave so out of character…

He must truly love her.

"I should have given her a gentler horse, but Sansa… She loves beautiful things," he goes on, his voice muffled and thick. Rhaenys looks to Tyrion and sees that he has come to the same horrible conclusion – Willas, their Willas, is crying.

"He's very drunk," Renly explains, motioning for Edmure to help him with Willas. As they carry him away from the table, Tyrion following them with Willas' cane in his hands, Rhaenys thinks she overhears Willas say one of the sweetest things she's ever heard:

"She loves beautiful things, and Whisper is one of the best-looking horses I've ever bred. I just thought… I wanted to make her happy."

* * *

Rhaegar has forbidden Viserys from visiting Sansa on her sickbed. Rhaegar has, in fact, forbidden Viserys from so much as _speaking _to Sansa Stark, even after she recovers.

Viserys assumes that Rhaenys went to her father, and he is _furious. _He cannot believe that she would have the nerve to interfere in such a thing – a thing that she does not understand, that _none _of them understand. How is Viserys knowing that he is supposed to marry Sansa any different from Rhaegar running away with Lyanna Stark? It is not, of course, and this knowledge only fuels Viserys' anger.

It has been a full month since Sansa's fall and he has not seen her once in that time, and yet Willas Tyrell – the cause of her pain – is rarely far from her side, even with her mother and brother and sister come south from Winterfell.

He decides that Rhaegar is once more being a fool and determines that he has waited long enough to see Sansa, to press his advantage while she must surely detest Tyrell, and so he mounts the stairs to her room, right next to Visenya's, and prepares to speak-

Her laughter, soft and light, echoes into the corridor, but it is not that which gives him pause.

It is the fact that Willas Tyrell is laughing with her.

The Tyrell words may be _Growing Strong, _but nothing that grows can stand against fire and blood, and Viserys _will _triumph over Willas.

* * *

Six weeks after her fall and Sansa is finally allowed to leave her bed. She walks through the gardens with her arm in a sling, Arya and Visenya – they are so alike that it alarms her sometimes – chatting about horses and swordplay, Margaery and Daenerys taking turns to link her good arm and whisper gossip in her ear.

She goes alone to the library, though, determined to read all of the books Willas recommended to her during her time abed. He is a fair judge of her interests, not suggesting the tomes of military history Robb and Jon read but rather more stories and songs, beautiful things like she enjoys.

The library in the Red Keep is one of her favourite places in the entire of King's Landing – it is always quiet and warm, and smells of old things in a different way to the godswood in Winterfell. It does not hurt, of course, that she could quite possibly meet Willas here at any time.

Her arm itches abominably under the bandages, and although the maesters say that it is a sign of healing, she does wish that she could somehow get at her skin to scratch. She ponders this as she wanders between the stacks with two books tucked into the crook of her right arm, wondering if her long knitting needles might fit under the tightly-fitting cast of hardened linen. She thinks not, that she might need something finer – Arya might know something, that blacksmith that she says sharpened her sword for her might have something. Sansa wishes that she could go into the city with Arya and the others, but the idea of riding terrifies her now and she could not ask for a litter just to go to a blacksmith's shop to search out something to scratch under her bandages-

"Lady Sansa."

Viserys stands behind her, and Sansa curses her luck that she is in one of the dead ends, surrounded on three sides by tall bookcases with Viserys blocking the only escape.

"Your highness," she says, dipping into the best curtsy she can manage with both of her hands occupied as they are. "I did not expect to see you here."

"Nor I you, my lady," he says, stepping closer, too close – Sansa shifts away as best she can, wondering why it is that Willas' proximity makes her feel flushed and giddy but Viserys being so close makes her uncomfortable. "Do you enjoy reading?"

"Very much so," she says earnestly, hoping that he will sense her nervousness and excuse her. "Lord Willas has been very helpful in recommending many books to me this past while-"

"You are fond of Willas, Lady Sansa?"

She blushes, embarrassed by the question – it is totally inappropriate for him to ask such a thing. She might not have minded had Robb or Jon or Aegon or Ned asked in jest, even Uncle Edmure or Tyrion or Renly, because she likes them, is close to them – she has never been close to Viserys, has borne his increasingly intense stares and sharp enquiries as she grows into her woman's body with formal politeness and an adept hand at constructing flimsy excuses to leave his company.

"Lord Willas is very kind, your highness."

He crowds closer to her until her back is pressed tight against the bookcase and he looms over her as best he can. Rhaegar is tall and Aegon taller, but Viserys is small and skinny beside his brother and nephew, and Sansa is very tall for her age, tall for a woman full stop – he is not all that much taller than her, but there is a madness in his lilac eyes that unnerves her and inspires her to shrink away from him.

"Lord Willas is the consummate gentleman," Viserys agrees, leaning one hand against the shelf, level with her face. He is far too close, both for comfort and decorum, and Sansa is nervous. "He spent much of his time at your bedside during your convalescence, Lady Sansa."

"He felt some guilt for my accident – it was all I could do to assure him that he was not at fault-"

"Was he not, though? It was him that gave you the horse and the saddle, my lady."

Sansa swallows, truly frightened now.

"Your highness, I would be thankful if you would permit me to take my leave of you now."

Viserys' hand is hard on her chin, turning her face up to his, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"You do not like my company, my lady?"

Sansa does not know how to respond to that – is she supposed to lie and say that yes, she enjoys time spent with him, or is she supposed to be honest and admit that there is something about him which makes her skin crawl?

He kisses her before she can think of a suitable answer, his mouth punishingly hard against hers – and he is sure to grasp her right wrist tightly so she cannot fight him off. She has never been so terrified in her life, especially not when his greedy, cruel fingers grope painfully at her breasts, tug at her skirts, lifting them almost as high as her knees while she squirms and fights against him, keeping her lips and teeth tightly together against his attempts at pushing his tongue into her mouth-

"Step away from her, Viserys."

Viserys head jerks up and Sansa gasps for breath, almost sobbing with relief at the sight of Willas' beautiful face so close, hard and set and white with rage, so relieved that she doesn't feel even the faintest lick of shame at her exposed legs and the haphazard arrangement of her bodice.

"Leave us, Tyrell-"

"I will not ask again, Viserys. Lady Stark is clearly terrified – step away from her, and for the childhood we spent together I will say no more on the matter."

Viserys whirls around and lunges for Willas, but Willas lifts his cane and-

"A sword-stick," Viserys gasps, leaning back just enough to avoid the point of the blade that has popped from the base of Willas' stick. "You carry steel-"

"For instances such as this," Willas says, his voice so quiet and polite that Sansa wonders how it can possibly seem so threatening. "Yes, Viserys. Now leave, or I shall be forced to dismantle my cane to clean your blood from the blade. I will not allow you to dishonour Lady Sansa."

Sansa's knees give out as Viserys scampers away, and only Willas' arm around her waist keeps her from falling to the ground.

"He was going to-"

"I would have killed him," Willas says, voice flat and dangerous. "I still might. Are you hurt, Sansa?"

She shakes her head – her right wrist is bruising already and she knows that her back will be sore for several days, and her mouth feels puffy, but her situation is infinitely preferable to how it might have been had Willas not appeared when he had.

"No, thank you," she breathes, struggling to right her skirts and tugging helplessly at her bodice. "I cannot go out into the castle proper-"

Willas' cheeks are flushed, but he swallows and sets his jaw.

"If you would hold my cane for a moment, perhaps I might…?"

She flushes with him but nods, wondering how she will ever repay his kindness, and takes his cane. She watches, fascinated, as he shifts all of his weight to his good leg, cocking his hip and gritting his teeth slightly before catching the neckline of her gown with trembling fingers and righting it gently.

"There," he breathes, letting his hands ghost across her collarbones and up her neck before pulling away, more flushed then before. "Come now, Sansa, I will escort you back to your mother-"

"Oh, no!" she gasps, horrified at the thought of explaining what had happened to Mother. "Oh, _please, _Willas, don't tell anyone, I should be so ashamed-"

"I cannot tell no one, Sansa," he says sternly, taking his cane back and leaning on it, the relief clear in his eyes. "Your mother should be told-"

"No, please," she begs, touching his chest with her good hand, biting her lip. "Willas, please-"

"Calm yourself," he soothes, covering her hand with his and frowning just slightly. "If not your mother, then your brothers? Your uncle? Edmure grew up with Viserys and I, he and Renly might be trusted to be discreet. Would that suit you, sweetling?"

"You would do this for me?"

His eyes are so serious, his face so earnest, that her breath catches in her throat.

"For you, Sansa? There is little I would not do."

* * *

Viserys does not see Edmure's fist coming the first time any more than the sixth, but he hears Edmure's words from first to last.

"My _niece, _you craven little bastard! My _niece!"_

* * *

Viserys arrives at dinner in the great hall four nights after his attack on Sansa in the library limping and bruised, one of his eyes swollen almost shut and his lip cracked.

Willas, sitting at her side, is half-smiling.

"Perhaps Edmure and Renly were not so discreet as I might have hoped," he murmurs, meeting her eyes for a short moment, just long enough to rise a blush in her cheeks. She is sure that the blush will never fade at this rate, not when Willas presents her with small gifts – roses in the exact shade of yellow that she loves, exquisite shawls to replace her ugly sling, ribbons to braid into her hair in all her favourite colours – at every turn.

Mother clears her throat, interrupting their silent exchange, and Sansa looks away.

Almost as soon as the meal is cleared away, when they are all sitting about and talking, Willas' hand finds Sansa's under the table and she smiles so wide she thinks her face might crack.

* * *

**AN: **Just to be clear on the Starks family situation: Brandon is still alive and married to Cat. Their children are Robb, Sansa, Bran and Rickon. Ned, meanwhile, is married to Ashara Dayne, and their children are Jon and Arya. Good? Oh, and Lyanna is dead, but Visenya is her and Rhaegar's daughter.

Also, Rhaenys Targaryen is married to Tyrion Lannister. If there're any other questions, be sure to let me know :D


	3. And she'll throw her cloak

**And she'll throw her cloak about your shoulders**

* * *

I ship Ned/Ashara almost as hard as Sansa/Willas. Jsyk.

* * *

"Hoster Tully won't give us his men until his daughters are married."

Brandon looks across to Jon, sees the devastation in the Lord of the Vale's face, and grimaces up at Robert and Ned.

"Well, Cat and I can move the wedding forward, but what about Lysa? Does old Tully want a Stark for her as well?"

Robert frowns at Ned, who pointedly refuses to meet anyone's eyes. Brandon can't be sure because of that blasted beard of Ned's, but he thinks his brother might be _blushing._

"Unless Benjen's willing to come south and marry her, it seems we don't _have _a Stark for the younger one," Robert growls, still looking at Ned. "I suggested marrying Ned to Lysa, only to be told that he's already betrothed to someone else!"

Silence greets this declaration, and Brandon's fairly sure that it's because Jon is as flummoxed as he is. Ned betrothed?

"To who?" he demands, standing up and putting his three inch advantage to good use in looming over Ned. "Surely any of our lords would have shouted it from the hills if they'd snared a Stark-"

"She's not from the North," Ned blurts out, looking embarrassed and chagrined and as if he wants nothing more than to break Robert's jaw. "Or even the Vale. She's… She's from Dorne."

"Who is she, Ned?" Brandon says, stepping closer still, so his chest is pressing against Ned's. Their breastplates clink softly in the quiet.

"Ashara," Ned sighs at last. "Ashara Dayne. I am betrothed to Ashara Dayne of Starfall. Surely some of you questioned all the ravens coming and going that bore her brother's seal?"

"Tell them the rest, Ned," Robert snaps. "Tell them what you told Hoster Tully and me."

Ned's whole face seems to flare red, and he can't seem to find words.

"Our honourable Eddard Stark told Hoster Tully that he could not marry Lysa because not only has he promised himself to Ashara Dayne, he has also got a child on her. She'll have given birth by the time they marry, because she is apparently already six moons along – which is not why the Lord of Starfall accepted Ned's suit, oh no. It is because the Lord of bloody Starfall accepted Ned's suit that Lady Ashara bloody Dayne, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, is heavy with his bloody child! So said Ned when Hoster Tully asked for his reasons for refusing Lysa's hand."

Brandon finds that there is little he can do in the face of Ned's shame and Robert's fury but laugh, and so he does.

* * *

When the war is ended and every lord and lady in the realm comes to King's Landing for judgement, to reaffirm their loyalty to House Targaryen, Brandon meets Ashara Dayne for the first time since Harrenhall.

She does not flirt with every man now, does not watch her admirers with those haunting violet eyes and that knowing little smile. Now she runs to Ned, the child in her arms so Stark it makes Brandon's heart ache all the more for Lya, who never saw her Stark daughter or Ned's Stark son or his own Tully boy.

Brandon cannot remember ever seeing such pure, absolute happiness on Ned's face as in the moment when he holds his son for the first time, grinning down at the boy that Ashara teasingly calls "Jon Sand."

"His name'll be Jon Snow for now," Ned teases back. "And Jon Stark once I get around to putting a cloak around you."

Cat laughs at Brandon's side, cradling Robb against her breast and shaking her head.

"Lady Ashara is from Dorne, brother," she points out, smiling at the woman who will soon be her goodsister. "In Dorne the women often take charge – I am sure that she will decide when you wedding is, and then she'll throw her cloak about your shoulders and make a Dayne of you."

Ashara's smile is so wide Brandon almost thinks her face might crack from it.

"You know, Ned, I rather like that idea."


	4. Unbroken Honour

**Unbroken Honour**

* * *

I am surprising myself with how intense my love for Edmure/Arianne is, considering I never even thought of it in passing before sitting down to right this.

* * *

"Our Martell will be here in time for the wedding, I hope?"

Rhaenys glanced over the top of her book to Willas, rolling her eyes and smiling.

"Do truly think that Arianne would miss the end of your bachelordom? Do not play the fool with me, Tyrell – you've had word from her already, haven't you?"

Willas grinned and eased himself to the ground beside her, pulling a scroll from his sleeve and handing it over.

"No, from our prince – his penmanship has improved a thousandfold since his last letter, I think."

Rhaenys smiled indulgently as she read the letter in scrawling, untidy writing.

"Uncle Willas," she read aloud. "Con- Is that supposed to be 'congratulations'?"

"I assumed so."

"Congratulations on your – on your wedding, I assume that is." She laughed. "Oh, bless him, his writing really is deplorable, isn't it?"

"Read the rest of it," Willas urged. "It's lovely."

Rhaenys skimmed the letter, laughing under her breath as she read.

"Hoping you are well and you have not hurt your other leg, Prince Elias of House Martell."

"He always passes comment on my leg," Willas sighed affectionately. "He has Arianne's tact, I think."

"We Martell women are not known for our tact," Rhaenys admitted, grinning.

"Arianne will kill you for referring to Elias as a Martell woman."

* * *

The procession led by the Martells was received by the Queen herself – she swept forth to greet her brother and nephew and niece, but it was her grandnephew who met her at the head of the party.

Elias Martell, second in line to Sunspear, ten years old and the very image of his mother save for his striking blue eyes, almost tumbled from his saddle in his eagerness to greet Elia.

"Aunt Elia!" he shouted, righting himself and running the few steps separating them to throw his arms about her waist. "It is _wonderful _to see you!"

"And you, darling boy," Elia laughed. "Come, I must meet your mother and your uncles."

Elias relinquished her easily enough, running to Lewyn and then to Rhaenys and Aegon. He was a cheerful boy if slightly wild (because although few would dare say it to her, Arianne spoiled and indulged him shockingly).

"Are Mother's friends here? I must see Uncle Willas, he said that he would introduce me to Lady Sansa in his letter-"

"Calm down, little cousin," Aegon laughed, tweaking Elias' nose. "You have not asked to meet my betrothed, have you? I am hurt."

"Oh, _your _betrothed! I forgot all about her! Isn't she a Stark like Visenya's mother was? Mother said that everyone says that Lady Arya is the very image of Lady Lyanna-"

"That's quite enough," Rhaenys said, guiding Elias inside with her eyes on her mother's back. "Come, come – we have a party waiting for you!"

* * *

_Arianne did not want to come to King's Landing. It was far away from Sunspear and the Water Gardens, Mother and Father, Uncle Oberyn and the Sand Snakes. She would hate it, she knew it, because there would be no Dornishmen or women save her Aunt Elia and her cousin Rhaenys, who were Targaryens too, and her Uncle Lewyn, who would be busy guarding the king all the time._

_She scowled all the way from Sunspear to King's Landing and pouted all the way to the Red Keep, smiling only when Aunt Elia bent down and kissed her cheeks and Rhaenys swept forward to pull her into a hug and herd her into the keep._

_"Come, Arianne, everyone else is here except Rodrick Greyjoy and Tyrion Lannister – come along, come meet everyone else!"_

_She did not like Renly Baratheon and Willas Tyrell and Viserys, who she had never liked, because they were older and loud and they laughed too much, but she didn't mind Edmure Tully even though he was older than any of them, because he was quiet and almost as unhappy about being there as she was._

_"I wanted to stay at home with my father," he confided, handing her a cup of the sweet apple juice Rhaenys loved so much. "But he said that it would make a fine man of me to come to the capital."_

_"My father said that I could better learn to be a lady here. I'm not a lady, though, I'm a princess, like my grandmother – I'll rule Dorne someday, you know."_

_Edmure smiled shyly._

_"You can be my princess," he offered._

_Arianne liked Edmure Tully very much._

* * *

Willas stumbled back against the wall when Elias threw himself into his arms, laughing to hide his wince of pain.

"Calm yourself, little man," he chided, ruffling Elias' mop of untidy black hair. "It would not do to leave me bedridden in the week before my wedding, would it?"

"Oh, I _am _sorry, Uncle Willas!" Elias exclaimed. "But you did not visit Sunspear as you promised and I have not seen you in so very long-"

"Is that Elias Martell I hear?" Renly boomed, throwing the doors open and holding his arms wide. "Surely this cannot be he? Elias is a tiny little thing, barely more than an infant!"

_"Uncle Renly!" _Elias shouted, stomping across the room and wrapping his arms tight around Renly's waist. "I am ten years old!"

"Ah, you will be a man grown soon!" Tyrion teased, looking out from behind Renly's legs. "You've grown taller than me, at least!"

"Mother says that I shall be taller than anyone in the family," Elias informed them proudly. "She says that I must take after Grandmother Mellario's family."

Willas and Renly exchanged a knowing glance above Elias' head.

* * *

_Arianne sometimes felt as if having an uncle on the Kingsguard made them special. _

_Her and Rhaenys (and Aegon, when he wasn't being a pest) had Uncle Lewyn, Edmure had Ser Brynden and Tyrion had Ser Gerion. Arianne and Edmure often sneaked into the White Sword Tower, though, to spend an afternoon bothering Lewyn and Brynden for stories._

_Somewhere around Arianne's thirteenth birthday, they'd stopped sneaking into the White Sword Tower and started just sneaking off together to explore the Keep and the city beyond – they'd even ventured down into Flea Bottom a few times. She always felt safe with Edmure, not only because he was so tall and broad but because he was so confident and sure of himself. She never felt so assured when he wasn't with her._

_Somewhere around Arianne's fifteenth birthday, they began sneaking off together to kiss._

* * *

Arianne smiled and sank into Edmure's embrace.

"It is so good to see you," she sighed, breathing in that scent that was peculiar to him. "How have you been since last we saw one another?"

"Well enough," he murmured, pressing his face into her hair and holding her tighter to him. "I have missed you, Arianne – you and Elias."

"I know," she whispered, turning her face up to meet his eyes. "But there is so much to do, now that Father leaves the Water Gardens so rarely – I am sure you of all people can understand that?"

Edmure grimaced, doubtless thinking of his own father's infirmities, and huffed a laugh.

"Renly is of the opinion that I've been utterly depressed since my arrival in the city," he confided, leaning his forehead against hers. "But he says I've cheered up magnificently in the past few days."

"He has become so supportive," Arianne noted wryly, tasting Edmure's laughter.

"He was sceptical of our plan at first, wasn't he?"

* * *

_"I can't marry some old greybeard, Renly, I can't! Father is being entirely hypocritical in the matter – Mother is of Norvos, they married for love, and yet he schemes and plots to arrange a match for me just so I will have an heir of suitable blood!"_

_"So you intend to make poor honourable Ed get a bastard on you? Think of the Tully words, Arianne – Family, Duty, Honour. All three are totally compromised by this plan of yours and you know it."_

_"There is no dishonour in it," she said firmly. "The child will be mine and mine alone."_

_"You think Edmure will allow that? Family comes before all else with the Tullys, Martell. Your Dornish stubbornness might lose you the finest friend you're ever likely to have."_

_"I won't lose him, Renly – Ed's agreed to it."_

* * *

"Father! Father!"

Edmure ran the length of the corridor and swept Elias into his arms, spinning the boy and pressing a kiss to his hair.

"How you have grown!" he crowed, grinning widely and hoisting Elias higher in his hold. "Why, you shall be as tall as I am by your next name day!"

"My next name day is only four moons away – I will not grow so much as that in so short a time, Father. You are being silly now."

"I know that, my lad," Edmure agreed, rolling his eyes and setting Elias back on the ground. "But I am silly with happiness to see you again – it has been too long, I think."

"Mother says we might visit Riverrun soon," Elias said eagerly, winding his arms around Edmure's waist and smiling up at him hopefully. "Please, Father? Might I come? I spoke to Uncle Lewyn and Uncle Brynden and they said that I would _love _Riverrun and that you might let me swim in the rivers-"

"We shall see," Edmure soothed, unable to hold back a smile of his own. The thought of Elias loose in Riverrun, swimming the Trident and climbing the trees of the godswood as Edmure had with Cat and Lysa when they were children… "Provided your mother is not called back to Sunspear too soon after the wedding, you may come to Riverrun for a visit."

"Oh, but _Father," _Elias whined, pouting just as Lysa used when she did not get her own way. "Even if Mother _is _called back, I could visit with you-"

"Elias," Edmure warned. "We have spoken of this. You know that you cannot behave as anything but a Martell – how would I explain the second-in-line to Sunspear visiting without his mother at Riverrun?"

Tears filled Elias' eyes.

"But Rhaenys might-"

"Rhaenys might do a great many things were she not heavy with child," Edmure reminded him gently. "Elias, come walk with me in the gardens."

They settled under a towering oak deep in the gardens, as far from prying ears as was possible.

"I know that it is hard for you, Elias," Edmure said softly. "It is hard for your mother and I as well, do not doubt that – there is not a day goes by that I do not wish that I had an older brother so that I might be free to wed your mother. She is heir to Dorne and I to the Riverlands, though, and we cannot be together. Your name is Martell, you wear the sun and the spear, and you cannot behave as my firstborn even if that is what you are. When you marry, the cloak you drape around your bride's shoulders will be orange and gold, not red and blue. You are so young to have so much responsibility heaped on your shoulders, and I wish it were not so."

"Am I a shame to you?" Elias asked. "I heard Viserys say that everyone knows that I am a Tully bastard and a shame on the honour of House Tully. I do not wish to be a shame to you, Father."

Edmure's anger rose so quickly and forcefully that it took all of his strength not to rise and run to Viserys as quickly as he could just so he could beat the little shit half to death as he had when Viserys laid hands on Sansa.

"You will _never _be a shame to me, Elias Martell," Edmure swore. "Do you understand me? I love you and your mother more than anyone in the world, and I will _never _be ashamed of that."

"Viserys said that you will have to marry someone, the daughter of one of your bannermen, and that she will give you trueborn sons and that you will never think of Mother and me then-"

"Viserys Targaryen is an idiot," Edmure said shortly. "You should pay even less heed to him than you do to those singers your cousin Sansa is so fond of."

"Sansa is very beautiful," Elias said seriously. "Although not so beautiful as Mother. I do not think anyone is as beautiful as Mother."

Edmure smiled and wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders.

"I must say I agree, my lad."

* * *

_The King looked from Edmure to Arianne, from Arianne to Edmure, and sighed._

_"I am told that there was some degree of planning went into this?"_

_Edmure kept his head down, but he could see Arianne cradling the swell of her belly in trembling hands._

_"Aye, Your Grace," he said at last. "We wanted this child."_

_When he looked up, Edmure was amazed to see the warm sympathy in Rhaegar's face._

_"I see no reason for anyone's honour to be besmirched, then," he said quietly. "He or she will be legitimised as a Martell by royal decree and we'll say no more about it, provided he or she makes no claim to Riverrun and does not attempt to usurp the right of your trueborn sons, Edmure. Does that seem fair?"_

_Arianne was stunning in her relief and thankfulness._

_"Eminently fair, Your Grace," she said. "He will be a Prince of Dorne and will never claim to be a Lord of the Riverlands, I swear it."_


	5. She cannot

**She cannot.**

* * *

****Elia wants to hate Rhaegar.

* * *

Elia wants to hate Rhaegar for Visenya, but she cannot.

She wants to hate him for Lyanna Stark, but she cannot.

She wants to be able to agree when Oberyn and Lewyn and even Ashara call him cruel names for his infidelity.

Then she looks at Rhaenys.

Rhaenys, with her glossy black hair.

Rhaenys, with her dark Martell eyes.

Rhaenys, with her cinnamon skin like Doran's.

Rhaenys, who is nothing but Dornish.

But she is more than Martell.

Elia wants to hate Rhaegar for Visenya and Lyanna, but she cannot, because he does not hate her for Rhaenys and Arthur.


End file.
